


He Puts his Hands all Over You to Keep you in the Room

by blueabsinthe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Philadelphia Flyers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Sliding Through the Crease: A Hockey Hipster Ships Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't get a happy ending...</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Puts his Hands all Over You to Keep you in the Room

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hockey hipster ships ficathon on LJ. Posting for archiving purposes. Title from the Richard Siken poem _The Dislocated Room_.

He knew they couldn't last forever. If he had the option to go back in time, he still thinks - or at least, likes to think - they'd end up like this. Minus the end, because well, quite frankly, endings suck.

Geno knows eventually everything ends. Sometimes it's long, dramatic, and hideously drawn out.

No one ever told him that the point when a person finally accepts something is over is like feeling your heart sink in your chest cavity like a stone.

But, he's getting ahead of himself now.

He can't remember the exact date it actually happened. He remembers the year clearly enough, seeing as how it was his first year in a Penguins jersey. The rest of the memory is all hazy and viscous when he tries to recall it. He remembers the moments in bits and pieces.

Flashes of Max's silk tie, immaculately pressed suit jacket, equally immaculate dress pants, and small plastic buttons as they scattered across the carpeted hotel room.

Geno thinks he must have been young and impressionable at the time. Looking back, he probably should have realized what an absolutely infuriating bastard Max was, but he didn't seem to care. He wanted him nonetheless.

Max was a warm body, and more than willing to please. He let himself dissolve into the dark pools of Max's eyes, and the slight breathy tone Max's voice took on as his lips brushed his ear. He trembled as Max's fingertips traced along the sides of his form, across his cheeks.

When he finally did take Max's cock in his mouth, he was dizzy, and almost euphoric. He could get high off Max's scent, his taste. He watches as Max comes, his dark brown eyes open the whole time, fingers tangled in Geno's hair.

Max is gone in the early morning hours. An unspoken understanding that this was the way it had to be.

Max never did have very high expectations, and Geno was never one to expect anything back from him. Except, he sometimes wishes he could be Max's one exception.

He leaves it for three days, then a week, then a month, which turns into years. Years of watching a steady stream of women and men fall into bed with Max. He tries not to think on it too much. Even ignoring how close Max and Flower grew over the years. He tells himself he means more because he was first.

Except, just like hockey, nothing is for sure, and the unexpected is almost a given.

He supposes this is why when Max signed with the Flyers, it shouldn't have surprised him. The smart thing would have been to not bother showing up at Max's, wanting an explanation. He wants a do over.

Except, he finds himself pinning Max down to the mattress, hands gripping Max's wrists so hard he's sure there will be bruises there tomorrow.

They fuck. And, it's sweaty, and messy, and perfect.

In the aftermath, he rolls onto his side. "So, this is it then?" he finds himself whispering, Max's hair tickling his cheek as he speaks.

"Yes," Max says, in a tone that really, Geno thinks, explains it all.

He falls asleep next to Max, his fingers intertwined with his, and he can't - he _won't_ \- let go.


End file.
